


Tea, Earl Grey, Hot

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Innocence, love and tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea, Earl Grey, Hot

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Jean Luc Picard. ;)

The tick of the clock is deafening, and Charles can’t sleep. The thoughts of the children are easy to filter out, but Erik’s…not always.

Charles is good with his power. He’s almost there, he thinks, cocky enough to be sure, worried enough to still work on it on his own. But he exists now primarily to help the ones who really need his help, the guidance he can provide, the intelligence and kindness behind his gift. His is a dangerous gift, one he could overuse and one he could destroy the world with, should he put his mind to it. But all he really wants is to take away pain and to develop strength in others when they can’t see it in themselves. It is a lofty goal; he will make it his life’s mission to accomplish it. He’s already begun to.

And yet, the guilt he feels sometimes when the night is too quiet overwhelms him, pushing him under the sea that is his brain, the shore receding quickly as the waves crash and blind him with their might. He is good at what he does, but sometimes, when he’s on his own and he can focus on what’s inside and what he’s felt his role is his entire life – what his family taught him – his treacherous power and what he could do if he so chose to – you’re a freak, Xavier –

 _no STOP you’re hurting me_

He shoots up out of bed without thinking about it and is in front of Erik’s (borrowed) door, pajamas hanging askew on his white shoulders, his eyes wide and frantic as he raises his hand and knocks. He knocks, because it’s the right thing to do, even though he can still hear Erik, can still feel that panic and rage that’s only slowly retreating, pressure waves from a bomb that is dissipating at an infinitesimal rate. It’s too slow and Charles knocks again and swallows hard against the anguish and hidden _something_ worry? fear? that rolls through his mind – already thick with his own guilt. He hates guilt. He’s sworn to rid himself of it; weakness that can only cause damage.

The grandfather clock ticks loudly, _3 AM do you know why your friend is in pain?_ and Charles raises the hand a third time.

“Come in,” Erik can be heard through the fat wood of the door, his voice low and thrumming and Charles pushes the door open and closes it behind him with a bare foot. He approaches the bed and has to shade his eyes for a moment when Erik clicks the lamp on with a gesture, the other man’s left hand all slender fingers and bones and sinew. The room is one that Charles has rarely been in; books and rich red wallpaper and two Tiffany lamps that are now warming the room with yellow light.

Erik sits up in the bed, fully dressed in chinos and black polo shirt (unusual; Charles can see the numbers etched into Erik’s left arm), sheets done up, coverlet neatly made. The only concession to being indoors is his bare feet, which are oddly white and – Charles has to stifle an inappropriate laugh; they’re so normal looking. Everything about Erik says strength and honor and follow through and danger and power – his feet are boy’s feet, long and skinny and the toes are too square.

“Why are you looking at my feet?”

Charles jerks his gaze to Erik’s face, which is as impassive as always. Save the dark circles under his eyes, the bags (suitcases, Charles thinks) that make him look way older and more tired than he is. Or perhaps he _is_ as tired as he looks, which in turn makes Charles feel more guilty, because that means he hasn’t been paying attention as he should.

He sighs and sits at the edge of the bed. “Why are you sitting here fully dressed in the middle of the night?”

Erik crosses his arms and sucks on his bottom lip, which Charles has only seen him do two or three times. Charles narrows his eyes as he watches Erik, and waits – oh, he could delve, but he’s not going to, not without the other man’s permission. He could (It’s good, isn’t it?), but he won’t.

But the pain he’d felt.

“What are you so angry about, Erik?” Charles asks the question hesitantly; he knows the generic answer to his question already, thanks to Florida and the boat and ocean. He’s close to Erik, closer than he’s ever been to anyone else and too quickly (which scares him, to be honest, but he would never admit that) but he won’t let Erik call out at 3am and not try and help him. His friend, and other things that have the bottom of Charles’ heart and his stomach warming with possibility and contentment, even though the look on Erik’s face…he’s too white and his mouth is too pinched. Charles reaches out a hand, the thought to touch Erik, to perhaps try and comfort him in the way he knows _he_ would like best (selfish, Charles, he thinks).

“Why don’t you just read me and find out?”

Charles’ hand hovers in the air, not touching. _Erik, God damn it._ He shakes his head. “How many questions can we spit out?” he asks quietly.

“How many are you willing to brush aside?”

This time Charles snorts. “As many as it takes, Erik. This isn’t about me.” He lowers his hand, a different objective, and touches the other man’s long right foot, the toes cold and he squeezes the digits together under his own warm fingers as he contemplates

 _tea_

He looks up. “What?” he asks aloud, wondering if he projected that thought himself, or did Erik think

 _let’s get tea._

An image of himself and Erik floats through his mind, both of them in comfortable pajamas (Charles in the ones he has on now) and seated at the kitchen table, the damnable clock chiming softly in the background, toast toasting, butter and jam waiting in a crock by the sink, the smell of boiling leaves warm and familiar on the stovetop.

Charles blinks his impossibly _they are not, Erik_ blue eyes and licks his dry lips. “You’re trying to distract me. Stop it.”

Erik’s mouth quirks in a small predatory smile and his brain is closed off from Charles’ gentle querying. “If I were trying to distract you, I’d do this.”

The kiss is short and hard but in that brief moment Charles can feel _everything, I know everything about you_ whatever it is that Erik’s trying to hide and he attempts again to jump inside, unable to not try –

“Let’s get tea,” Erik says out loud this time and pulls back, the inside of his mind a metal prison that Erik is the sole occupant of now. Charles frowns and touches his temple with his left hand, which Erik catches in his own and jerks away from Charles’ head.

“No,” he says firmly and stands, dragging Charles off the bed and facing him, toe to toe. Charles may be shorter than Erik, but he is no weakling and he raises the hand again –

“I could force this,” he says quietly. Erik’s gaze bores into him. Charles straightens his back and squeezes his mouth into a line, earnest, concerned, wanting. “I don’t want you suffering needlessly. Erik, trust me. I only want your pain to cease, my friend.” He swallows and narrows his eyes, hands rising toward Erik’s skull. He means every word he’s saying, even though Erik is still frowning and his arms are crossed. Why Charles isn’t willing to give this up – it’s 3am and Erik called out _inside_ loud enough for Charles to hear him.

He’s not giving up.

Closer and closer still, and the other man hasn’t tried to stop him.

Charles’ fingers grasp at Erik’s temples, the tips pushing into the straight hair there.

*

They sit in the kitchen, drinking tea in their night clothes. Charles has a headache of monster proportions, and Erik merely sits in silence, eating the pieces of toast he’s made himself. The clock chimes behind them (4am, all’s well) and the old house rattles and sighs a bit.

“Erik,” Charles says finally, wetting his lips, swallowing, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose. He looks up and meets the other man’s eyes. The moon hangs in the sky and is visible through the scudding clouds outsides; the sashes haven’t been drawn for the night. The reflection is in Erik’s hair and on his irises, the brightness outside shining inside, insidious and omniscient and terrifying – Erik’s eyes are white and blank, full of the moon, and Charles shivers once.

“More tea?”

Erik raises the pot with a gesture and Charles nods, his mouth closing.

“Yes, please.”


End file.
